


Only My Mirror

by navaan



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Enemy Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Ficlet, Flash Fic, Friendship, Light Dom/sub, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:16:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navaan/pseuds/navaan
Summary: “Not that way,” she says and scrambles up the bed to push a cushion against the headboard.





	Only My Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the come_at_once challenge. For the prompt "This is delicious."

Sherlock has no use for the distractions of passion. Everyone needs tenderness, sex, touch, but anything beyond it remains illusion - until Irene.

“Not that way,” she says and scrambles up the bed to push a cushion against the headboard. She’s wearing one of his shirts. There’s just a tiny speck of blue paint on the left side of her throat and the scent of turpentine clings to her hands, her skin, her hair. It’s enticing and straightforward in its conclusiveness. There are no mysteries here, and yet there is perhaps the greatest enigma he’s faced yet. He doesn’t want to name it yet - _more than lust, more than passion, romance, love_ \- so he doesn’t. Not now.

Sentimentality isn’t one of his vices.

He goes where she directs him, easily. His mind - never still, always thinking, always fast and superior - is captivated, quiet, slowing down. Sex is always a welcome distraction, when he controls the level of entanglement  
with a partner who understands that sex doesn’t need emotions to spill over into a sentimental clinging.

With Irene he irrationally wants to cling. 

She’s smart, stimulating and open, and yet there is something. Something that fits with him in ways that human beings usually don’t.

“Like this,” she directs and makes him sit, naked against the cushion, lean against the headboard. She bats away his hands, when he strokes them along her hips. He wants to grasp and hold and hurry this up.

“Sherlock,” she whispers and straddles him, “I’m the boss today - and I’ll do all the work.”

His mind goes blank, blissfully silent as she impales herself on him, rolls her hips slowly and then fast, keeping him on edge until he writhes and begs and leaves all control to her.

Later, when their movements are frantic, when they’re closing in on the moment that makes it all culminate, she leaned down and, heaving breaths and not slowing down her moments, taunting him with perfect friction that never is enough, whispers against his lips: “The moment, when your thoughts slow down. It’s mine. It’s delicious. I want it. I need it.”

He comes, gasping, wondering in a split second if she wanted to see the moment in his eyes, or if she too craved the moment of everything going silent for herself.

* * *

“Hold him,” the woman says and her partner does as he’s told - wraps his arms around him and holds him still. Sherlock has invited the game, in need of release and distraction. So far the two partners for the afternoon don’t dissapoint. “So delicious,” she says after kissing him and the words make his mind zoom in on the moment, make his eyes flash, because he remembers Moriarty’s letter that’s still sitting on his desk unopened.

“Harder,” he says, and the man’s arms tighten around his chest.

“Take him,” the dark skinned beauty orders, instinctively making the choice to take charge here. 

Sex is easy when everyone is here not for the entanglement but the satisfaction and gratification. 

The man, tall and muscled, doesn’t waste time, to pull Sherlock down on him, biting his neck and waiting for the woman to sit in his lap to take what she needs from him. 

It’s close and hot and yet entirely impersonal in the way that suits him best. They never even exchanged names and - who needs names in this when they can just connect with skin and movement and kisses that say as much as needs to be said. Honest where honesty is rare.

Later, he lets both of them out of the room, watches them go in silence, glad that the itch is scratched so, to speak. Watson is standing in the kitchen, watching without an judgment in the eyes. She’s become quite used to the way he organizes his urges.

He picks up Moriarty’s letter because he feels as calm as he needs to.

He skims the first lines. “Do you know why we can’t stop writing? Who else can understand people like us, if not our mirror? Can you say you think of me and feel nothing but resentment and no connection?”

He can’t.

But he puts down the letter.

Watson has prepared a smoothie for herself and puts one in front of him. “For sustenance,” she says straight face and dark knowing eyes.

She expects him to say something. He takes a sip. 

“Delicious,” he says, although the taste is less than palatable. 

She chuckles. “No it isn’t.”

There’s a connection there, too, with her. Different and deeper and caring. He knows he cherishes it even on the days when Watson doesn’t understand him as only his mirror can.

He cherishes the difference.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me for fic updates on [tumblr](https://navaanwrites.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/navaanwrites). This fic has a post on the tumblr [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873594) in case you want to share it. It also has a page on my [Dreamwidth](https://navaan.dreamwidth.org/606575.html).


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